


Commandments

by ToBebbanburg



Category: Trust (TV 2018)
Genre: M/M, because primos dad is the worst, but really this is all about primo learning to live his best life, cracks knuckles, domestic abuse, later chapters will be explicit, so tags will be added then, time to revist my repressed Catholic childhood
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-20
Updated: 2020-11-19
Packaged: 2021-03-08 22:35:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 9,072
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27123943
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ToBebbanburg/pseuds/ToBebbanburg
Summary: Being born into an incredibly religious criminal family was bound to bring up contradictions. The Ten Commandments aren't so much rules to follow as a blue-print on rules to break to make it in a cutthroat world. This is Primo's story.
Relationships: Primo Nizzuto/OC
Comments: 16
Kudos: 56





	1. Honour thy Father and Mother

**Author's Note:**

> I've been reading a lot of meta about Primo on tumblr, which is what inspired this.

Primo Nizzuto was only nine years old the first time his father hit him hard enough to draw blood. Only nine the first time his mother stepped in, pleading for it to stop, only for his father to turn his hand to her. Only nine the first time he was thrown out of the house, the door locked behind him, the wood unyielding as he kicked and shouted and cried. The wood did little to stop his mother’s cries reaching his ears.

The fight had started over homework, of all things. Primo, as all children do, had been complaining to his mother about having to do the work. It was unfortunate that that time his father had overheard.

“We don’t need him to be good at maths, to be good at Italian. We have Leonardo for that crap. No, no, Primo doesn’t need to waste his time with all that, he needs to learn how to _think_ , how to _act_.” His father pulled heavily on his cigarette as he interrupted his wife’s bargaining of “just 30 minutes work, Primo, please”.

“Do you understand, boy?” He asked Primo. “No more wasting your time studying. You come home from school, and you go out with me instead of this homework shit. Yes?”

Primo nodded sullenly.

“Matteo, please.” His mother pleaded. “Stefano’s still studying, so should Primo.”

“Stefano’s weak.”

“But he’s my son too, let me have a say in his future.”

“He’s a Nizzuto.”

“He’s _Primo_.”

“I’m _here_.” Primo stamped his foot, tired of being talked about like he wasn’t there. “And I don’t want to do homework.”

“See?” His father said smugly.

“And I don’t want to go with papa either, it’s boring, I want to go and play football.” Primo continued.

The smile dropped from his father’s face.

“Now look here, boy, you’ll do what I tell you.” He said, stabbing his cigarette out and pointing his finger at Primo.

“I. Want. To. Play. Football.” Primo stood his ground. It wasn’t _fair_ , all the other boys in his class spent their evenings kicking a ball around one of the fields outside the village. They didn’t have to sit in the car while their fathers drove about collecting money they were “owed”. They didn’t have to sit silently in a corner while they watched the old men in their family talk about boring business for what felt like hours on end.

“You’ll do nothing of the sort.” His father snarled.

“I will.” Primo crossed his arms.

His father slapped him, hard. Primo attempted to shove him but was unable to do much against his father’s bulk. He was rewarded for his efforts by another slap, stronger and sharper than the first, his father’s nails catching on his cheek and leaving trails of blood across his face. His mother gave a cry and tried to restrain him, but she was brushed away as though she were little more than a fly.

The next moment Primo was lifted up and thrown out of the house and onto the dirt, the door slammed shut and bolted behind him. He hammered on the door until his fists bruised, shouting in an attempt to drown out his mother’s own shouts. Not soon enough, the shouting and the crying stopped, replaced with a deathly silence. Primo could hear footsteps making their way to the front door. He ran.

He ran through the village, past the church, past the farmhouses, past anything he recognised. He kept running until his lungs burned and his legs ached and he couldn’t run anymore. He wasn’t sure where exactly he was: an old outhouse it looked like, somewhere near his uncle Salvatore’s house perhaps. Primo peeked in through the windows: it looked like it was completely empty.

There were plenty of rocks littering the ground, and Primo picked a hefty one up in his hand. He tested the weight of it for a second before hurling it with all his might at one of the windows. The glass shattered with a satisfying crash, and Primo grinned. He looked for more rocks.

Another window smashed to pieces, then another, then another. Primo yelled as he hurled the rocks, letting loose all his frustration in his voice, through his arms. He was out of breath when most of the windows were little more than empty spaces in the walls, and was preparing to throw another rock when a voice called out to him.

“Primo! Hey!”

He turned around: hurrying across the field towards him was Leonardo, his father’s cousin. Primo generally liked Leonardo: he didn’t shout nearly as much as his father and Salvatore did, but in that moment he didn’t want company. He wanted to be alone, and he wanted to break things. He threw his rock.

“Primo, Primo, what is this, hmm? What would your father say?” there was a hint of desperation in Leonardo’s voice as he drew closer.

“I don’t care.” Primo shouted. “I hate him.”

“Nonono, you don’t, you’re just angry. Come on, Primo, calm down.”

“No.” Primo picked up another rock and hurled it through an already broken window. It made a satisfying “thud” when it landed.

“ _Primo_.” Leonardo put a hand on Primo’s arm: not putting any pressure on him, just grounding him. “Per favore.”

Something snapped inside Primo then, the tension that had been held taut by his anger and pain suddenly released and he could do nothing but cry. Leonardo held him awkwardly, unsure whether to hug him or leave him alone, and so Primo cried with Leonardo’s hand resting on his shoulder, the gentle touch making the raw skin on his face burn even hotter. His tears only stopped when Leonardo swore, removing his hand from Primo’s shoulder to tilt his head to one side, studying the broken skin.

“Mannaggia, Primo, how have you done this?”

Primo angrily shoved Leonardo away. “Matteo.” He said. It was the only act of defiance he had left: refusing to acknowledge his father as such, reducing him to his Christian name.

“Matteo… your _father_ did this? And your mother?”

“He hit her too. He wouldn’t stop hitting her.”

Leonardo swore again, then ran his hand through his hair.

“Ok. Primo, listen to me. Your father… is a difficult man. But that just means you have to be clever. Learn not to make him angry, try to avoid him. Learn to duck.”

“I’m not going back.” Primo said stubbornly. Trying not to make Matteo angry was like trying to stop the clouds from raining.

“You have to go back.” Leonardo urged, though he sounded pained.

“Why?”

“Because he’s your father.”

Primo snorted, and Leonardo sighed.

“Do you know where we are, Primo?” he asked, changing the subject suddenly. Primo sullenly shook his head. “This land used to belong to Salvatore’s father. It belonged to his father before him, and his father before him. Passed down from father to son from generation to generation, but Salvatore has no sons. Who do you think will inherit the land when Salvatore is gone, hmm?”

“Don’t know.” Primo muttered, idly kicking at the rocks on the ground, but he was more than a little intrigued as to what Leonardo was getting at.

“It could be me, it could be your father, it could be _you_. But if you want that, you have to respect the family. Your father. Without them, you have nothing.”

Primo considered that. One day, Salvatore and Matteo would both be gone and he, Primo, could inherit it all. He’d buy his mother a new house and all the shoes she wanted. He’d buy a football pitch and he’d play football all day and no one could tell him not to because he’d be in charge.

Leonardo was looking at him hopefully, his eyes intense as he searched Primo’s face for any sign that he’d got through. Primo didn’t want to give him the satisfaction.

“It’s just fields. I don’t want it.” He lied. He’d had enough at that point, enough of hiding, enough of talking to Leonardo. He ran off again without a single glance behind him.

When Primo returned his father was long gone, and his mother was curled up in bed with the curtains drawn and the lights off. He crawled under the blankets beside her and tried to hug her. She stiffened, for a second, then relaxed and turned over to return the embrace.

“It’s not your fault.” She whispered into his hair as he closed his eyes. “It’s never your fault.”

The next time Matteo swung at Primo, Primo hit back. He achieved nothing more than temporarily winding his father, and was locked in his room for a day without food for his efforts, but to Primo that was a victory. He’d be stronger, next time, and stronger still the time after that. Primo was going to have everything, and he wasn’t going to let his father stand in his way.


	2. Thou shalt not covet thy neighbour’s wife

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Primo learns to shoot, gets dragged to a wedding, and explores his sexuality.

Slowly, over the years, Primo and Matteo reached an uneasy truce. Primo learnt to follow Leonardo’s advice, if not for his own sake but for his mother’s. He avoided Matteo where he could, and grudgingly accompanied him as he went about his “business” when avoiding him became inescapable. He was fifteen when he was taught him how to fire a gun, Matteo making him stand outside in the cold of the woods day after day until the excitement he had felt when he had first picked up the rifle had worn down to the same numbness that everything else did.

Matteo lectured him as he practised, as he lined up shot after shot after shot.

“People like cousin Leonardo… they’re talkers. Thinkers. Sure they can negotiate, extort people, but that’s all. We’re of different blood, Primo. Stronger blood. We’re the men who _do_ things. We see what we want, what we need, and we _take_ it. No talking. Now. Again.” Matteo cuffed him about the head then stood back, taking a drag of his cigarette. “I said again, Primo.”

Primo reloaded his rifle and aimed it, widening his stance and taking a calming breath. For all his talk of action his father kept talking, kept cursing Primo’s inability to learn, to listen, to do anything right. Primo imagined himself in a car driving through a tunnel, his father at the far end growing smaller and smaller, fainter and fainter until he vanished into the darkness. Primo imagined driving out of that tunnel. He fired.

His father stopped talking, stunned by the shot. A perfect head-shot. If Matteo had been any other man Primo would have expected a word of praise, or a pat on the shoulder. Instead his father said:

“Again. One more time. Then sort yourself out, we leave for Eleonora’s wedding in 30 minutes.”

*****

Eleonora was Primo’s cousin who, barely 19, was marrying a man from the next village over. Forming bonds, Salvatore called it. Strengthening both their bloodline and their pockets. Her husband-to-be’s family owned a modest construction company that mostly served the surrounding countryside. As Primo understood it, Salvatore had designs on expanding their area of operation further into Calabria. Once they were all family, of course.

“Back of the church.” Matteo muttered under his breath as they filed along the pew, a few minutes before the ceremony. “See, Gabriella, see? This is what you’ve done to us. What you’ve done to _me_. Back of the church.”

“All men are equal before God.” Primo’s mother replied, her jaw firmly set and her gaze fixed on the altar. “The front of the church is no better than the back.”

“This isn’t about God, it’s about Salvatore.” Matteo spat. “If you’d just listened to me, if you hadn’t been so fucking stubborn and let him be Primo’s sponsor we would be up there at the front with the rest of the family.”

Primo shut his eyes and tried to block their arguing out. It had been a year since his confirmation, a year since his mother had finally won an argument with Matteo and decreed that her older brother should be Primo’s sponsor. Salvatore had not forgiven her since.

Primo only opened his eyes again when the church went silent, and the rustling around him signified the congregation standing to their feet. It was starting.

Eleonora looked like an angel, dressed all in white with her pale blonde hair curling freely around her face. Every pair of eyes in the church were on her as her father walked her down the aisle. Every pair but Primo’s.

Antonio, the groom, had stood up by the altar, and Primo could have sworn that he had never seen such a handsome man in all his life. His hair was dark, curling slightly at the ends despite the product he had clearly worked through in an attempt to smooth it out, and even from the back of the church Primo could tell that his eyes were a steely grey. He wore a fitted suit that did little to disguise his muscular arms, and Primo found himself unable to look away.

It was a sin to look at a man in such a way he’d been told, a nearly married man at that, but Primo had learnt there were many contradictions between what the Church taught and what his family did. Surely this wasn’t so different? He felt a knot in the pit of his stomach as he looked at Antonio, as he watched him laugh and smile his way through his vows. How could someone he’d only just set eyes on affect him so much?

He was thankful when the ceremony was over: sitting on that pew for over an hour had been uncomfortable, in more ways than one. He needed air.

The family and guests all mingled outside the church, laughing and gossiping and celebrating as wine and food started to be laid out. A band arrived, and music filled the air, the rhythmic sounds of clapping and stamping growing in volume until it almost threatened to drown out the instruments. Eleonora took a hold of Antonio’s hands and timidly led him into the centre of a circle, neither of them great dancers but both growing in confidence as they found stability in each other’s arms. Primo had to look away.

He caught sight of Stefano, his cousin, standing a little apart from the crowd, looking as out of place as it was possible to be when surrounded by family. Stefano’s father had died almost five years ago, and his widow had decided to move back to Rome to be with her sister. Stefano was the only person Primo knew who had got out of the village. He didn’t think he deserved it. Nevertheless, Stefano was the only person he could see who could have anything new to say, anything remotely interesting, and so Primo made his way over.

“Oi, finally decided to come back?” Primo asked Stefano with a wry smile. His cousin was two years older than him, two inches taller, but he carried himself in a way that made him seem younger, smaller.

“Eleonora asked.” He said. His throat bobbed as if he wanted to say more, but he took a drink from his glass instead.

“What’s it like in the city then?” Primo asked him.

“It’s different.” Stefano said. “It’s busier, louder, but… more lonely.”

Stefano had never seemed happy in the village. Less happy even than Primo, despite having a father who didn’t use him as a punching bag. Primo was somewhat amused to find that he didn’t seem to be happy in Rome either.

“But more to do, no?” Primo pushed. “Clubs, cinemas, restaurants? People?”

Stefano simply shrugged. Primo began to reassess his clearly misguided hope that his cousin might have anything interesting to say. He was just about to leave and try to find himself a drink when someone approached them.

“Got a light?” A voice came from behind Primo and he turned to see who it was. A man stood there, about Primo’s age, perhaps older as he stood slightly taller and was sporting the beginnings of a beard on his cheeks. He looked uncannily like Antonio, the groom, and the part of Primo’s brain that was still functioning supplied that this was likely his younger brother.

“Sure.” Primo replied, turning his back completely to Stefano and digging in his pockets for his lighter. He held the flame out to the taller boy, who slipped a cigarette between his lips and leant forward to light it. Primo felt the same urge that he had in the church, the primal _want_ making itself known in his heart, in the pit of his stomach.

“Andrea.” The boy introduced himself, taking a drag on his cigarette.

“Primo.” Primo fumbled out a cigarette for himself, his fingers suddenly uncoordinated and sluggish.

“Primo.” Andrea rolled the name around his mouth like it was smoke. “From the bride’s family, I presume? You have the same eyes. Pretty.”

Primo choked on his own mouthful of smoke. He’d been the subject of plenty of flirting before, of course, but never by someone he’d actually _wanted_. In a rare occurrence, he found himself lost for words, but was saved by Stefano suddenly finding his voice.

“I’m going to go... goodbye.” He said awkwardly, looking between the two of them.

“Ciao.” Primo replied, his eyes still firmly fixed on Andrea. Stefano hovered for a moment, almost like he wanted to say something else, but thankfully left without another word.

Andrea took another puff from his cigarette, considering Primo.

“I saw you looking at my brother in the church. You might want to be more careful.” He said casually.

“If I’d been more careful you wouldn’t be here.” Primo pointed out.

“True.” Andrea grinned around his cigarette, taking one last inhale from it before throwing it to the ground and stamping it out.

“Although, I don’t really want to be _here_ anymore. Think your family would notice if you disappeared for a few minutes?” The suggestion in Andrea’s voice was clear, and Primo’s heart jumped. _Yes_.

“They wouldn’t notice if I disappeared for hours.” He replied. Perhaps not entirely true: his mother would miss him, but Matteo had been enjoying the wine enough that he wouldn’t care where Primo was even if he managed to register him as missing.

Primo flicked his own cigarette away, barely caring where it landed, and followed Andrea away from the party, off into the city. They walked down winding roads that turned into narrow streets that turned into tiny alleys, and all of a sudden Andrea was kissing him, his hands fisting in Primo’s jacket, in his hair, and Primo’s brain switched off as he let himself enjoy the moment.

When they re-emerged later, suits crumpled and lips bruised, Primo realised he’d been wrong. His father _had_ missed him, whereas his mother had been happily talking to Leonardo and his wife non-stop since he left.

“Where’ve you been?” Matteo’s words were slurred as he grabbed a hold of Primo’s elbow.

“Nowhere.” Primo replied, not bothering to try and hide the blatant lie.

Matteo’s eyes narrowed as he took Primo’s rumpled collar, his messy hair. “Having fun with one of the girls were you? About time. I was beginning to think you were broken.” He snorted. “Now get your arse back in the car, we’re leaving.”

Matteo left to drag his wife away from discussing baby names with Regina, and Primo scanned the crowd for any sign of Andrea. Nothing. It was probably for the best, he told himself: he didn’t want his father to suspect anything after all, and yet he felt oddly melancholic to leave without saying goodbye.

He wouldn’t have had a chance to anyways- as soon as Matteo had collected Gabriella he put a firm hand on Primo’s shoulder and steered him away from the party, back to the car. Primo didn’t struggle. Some fights weren’t worth it.

“I hope you didn’t get that poor girl pregnant.” Matteo remarked to Primo as they drove home. “You’ll have to marry her if you did, and that could screw over our future plans.”

Primo didn’t answer, staring resolutely out of the window.

“Hey. Are you listening? We might need to marry you off like little Eleonora, finally get some use out of you.”

“Oh, so I’m no better than a woman, am I? To be married off to some farmer’s daughter just to get us a little more land?” Primo argued, no longer able to stay silent.

“You’ll do what we tell you to do.” Matteo insisted. “And if that means whoring you out then so be it.”

“Matteo,” Primo’s mother pleaded, resting her hand on her husband’s arm in an attempt to placate him. He shook her off.

“I won’t marry.” Primo told him. “Ever.”

He was certain of that. He found he could bear Matteo’s venom better now, his mind still full of thoughts of Andrea. The way he had pushed Primo against the wall, hot and insistent. The feeling of his lips, his tongue, his _hands_. How Primo could be expected to marry a girl after that, knowing what he would be missing, he didn’t know.

He was so caught up his thoughts that he didn’t notice Matteo bringing the car to a stop until they were completely stationary.

“Get out.” Matteo snarled. “You’re walking back.”

“Matteo no, we’re still several miles away.” His mother tried to protest.

“Shut up, or you’ll be walking with him.”

“It’s fine.” Primo reassured his mother, whilst glaring at Matteo. It was a blessing really. He’d rather walk for hours than spend a single minute longer in that car. He made sure to slam the door as hard as he could when he got out, and Matteo sped off the instant the door was closed.

Primo jammed his hands deep into his suit pockets and idly kicked a rock as he checked his bearings. If he followed the road back he would make it back home in around two hours, or he could detour down into the valley and stretch it out to three. There was no choice really.

Primo stepped off the road and into the woods, not caring a bit about spoiling the suit that would no doubt no longer fit him in a year. He started the long walk home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know this is a low-impact fic compared to my others, but it's one of the most serious things I've written and I'm legit enjoying this, so thanks so much to everyone who's read this. I appreciate it very much!
> 
> I'm on tumblr, @tobebbanburg, if you want to go mad over Trust meta together, because there is So Much intrigue and subtext in this show.


	3. Thou shalt not kill

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After years of watching and learning, Primo is finally trusted to carry out his first solo job for the family.

In the space of a single year, everything changed. Primo’s mother grew ill, her spirit failing her at a frightening pace until one day she was no more. Matteo grew even more violent in his grief, enforcing Salvatore’s grip over the region with a sadistic cruelty. Primo turned 18. No one seemed to notice.

He was entrusted with small tasks of his own now, having long since left school. He was sent to collect, to threaten. He was the lowest in the pecking order of his family, barely above the women and children, but Primo obeyed, and he observed, and he _learnt_. When the time finally came for something greater, Primo was ready.

“Cristiano is mocking us. For over a year he tells us he cannot pay, and yet he can afford to buy a new car. He tells us he needs more time, yet he dresses his wife in pearls. We have to make an example of him.” Salvatore had dropped by their house late one evening, making himself at home in their kitchen and wasting no time in getting down to business. “Matteo?”

“I’ll do it.” Matteo nodded, but Salvatore shook his head.

“No. Get your son to do it. It’s time.” Salvatore pulled his jacket tighter around himself and made to leave, and for some reason Primo decided to stand in his way. His uncle came to a halt and looked up at him, his face betraying nothing of his emotions.

“Ask me yourself.” Primo said. He’d shot up in the last couple of years, and now stood a good half a head taller than Salvatore. Taller than Matteo. If the height difference irked the Don, he didn’t show it, and instead he looked up to meet Primo’s gaze levelly.

“Kill him. Not in a bit, not later, now.”

Salvatore swept out of their house, vanishing as suddenly as he had arrived. Primo didn’t spare a single look at Matteo as he fetched his gun, briefly checking it before stowing it in his jacket and leaving.

He took Matteo’s car, following the road to the next village over as though on autopilot. He knew Cristiano well enough- ever since Primo had been a boy, the baker had been a frequent recipient of Matteo’s visits. Primo could tell that Cristiano was playing them for years, but Matteo had scoffed when Primo had told him his suspicions, and Primo had never bothered to push the matter. If anything, he now felt a smug sense of satisfaction that he had known before Matteo. Before Salvatore.

He parked his car outside of the village and walked the rest of the way: he didn’t want the rumble of the engine alerting anyone. Cristiano lived in a small flat above his bakery, and the simple lock on the kitchen’s back door posed no problem to Primo. He wondered if he should sneak up to the bedroom and shoot Cristiano while he slept, quick and simple, but before he made up his mind he heard concerned voices from upstairs. Perhaps Cristiano would come to him.

He readied his gun, training it on the door, and with his foot kicked the kitchen door closed with a slam. The voices upstairs stopped, and Primo heard footsteps slowly making their way across the room above him, descending the stairs. The door to the kitchen slowly pushed open, and Primo took a deep breath.

He hesitated.

He’d imagined this moment so many times, had run the scenario over and over in his head during the drive over. The reality was different. It was only a second, only a moment of weakness, but it was enough for Cristiano to sense an opening and start babbling.

“Please, please, I was going to pay, I swear on the Virgin.” Cristiano pleaded, hands dropping the lamp he had been brandishing in favour of grasping for the crucifix around his neck.

“Oh?” Primo asked, keeping his gun steady. “When? Another two years from now? Ten?” He shouldn’t be talking, he _shouldn’t_ , but he couldn’t help himself.

“I have the money, take it, take it.” Cristiano backed away and gestured to the large flour bags stacked in the corner. “I hid it, kept it safe for you, let me just-“ he turned his back on Primo as he started burrowing between the flour bags, searching for something. Primo almost relaxed his pose. Almost.

It was fortunate that he didn’t, for when Cristiano turned around he was holding a gun in his hands, a pistol aimed straight at Primo.

Primo didn’t wait to see if the other man had anything to say, any threats to make. His finger tightened on the trigger, and Cristiano crumpled to the floor like a puppet with cut strings.

The shot echoed in Primo's ears as he looked at the body, his arms frozen in place, fingers still wrapped tightly around the gun. Cristiano was dead. Just like that. It had been so simple in the end, so _easy_ it was almost frightening. Primo had never felt more powerful.

He was shaken out of his trance by the sound of footsteps upstairs. The wife. Primo quickly headed over to the flour bags, searching through just in case Cristiano hadn’t been lying about the money there. He hadn’t. This was going better than expected- Salvatore had made no mention of collecting the money they were owed, only of killing Cristiano, and Primo stuffed the notes into his jacket as fast as he could before fleeing out of the bakery.

He saw the light in the kitchen flicker on as he jogged away, heard the wail of Cristiano’s wife break through the silence of the night, but any guilt, any regret he felt was by far outweighed by the weight of the money nestled in his pockets.

He didn’t go home, and instead drove straight to Salvatore’s house, the man sitting on guard outside waving him through with a nod of his head and a flick of his cigarette. There was a single light on in the house: Salvatore was waiting for him, and from the glimpse Primo got through the window so too was Leonardo. There was no sign of Matteo.

“It’s done.” Primo announced as he let himself in to the house, riding too high on adrenaline to both knocking. “And more: here’s what he was hiding.”

Primo reached into his jacket and took out the notes, dropping them onto the table triumphantly. Leonardo looked slightly shocked, but Salvatore grinned as though he'd expected that all along.

“Well done.” He said, stepping forward to greet Primo properly. It was the most affectionate he’d ever been towards Primo, and he couldn’t help but feel a twinge of pride. “Didn’t I say, Leonardo? I said he was ready.”

“Yes, yes.” Leonardo agreed. He didn’t make eye contact with Primo, instead busying himself with counting the money on the table.

“Have a drink, boy, you’ve earned it.” Salvatore waved Primo towards the jug of wine on the counter. “How did it go? Did he try to pull his gun on you? Or were you too quick for him?”

“I managed to- you knew he had a gun?” Primo frowned as his uncle’s words sunk in.

“Well of course, we were the ones who sold it to him.”

“He could have shot me!” Primo snarled, his pride quickly fading to make way for his anger. “You sent me in there thinking he was a poor defenceless baker and he could have killed me!”

Salvatore slapped him, hard. Primo wanted to hit back, to continue shouting, but out of the corner of his eye he saw Leonardo shake his head. Damn him, but he was right. Instead Primo clenched his jaw and turned back to his uncle, trying to control his breathing. In just a few seconds everything had changed. What he’d thought had been a simple test, his first proper job for the family, had had layers to it he hadn’t realised. Hidden layers that could have seen him lying dead in the bakery instead of Cristiano. Salvatore was no better than Matteo.

“ _If_ he had killed you, then it would have proved your lack of worth and we’d be better off without you.” Salvatore snapped. “But he didn’t.” He turned away, the matter apparently over, and nodded to Leonardo.

“Is it all there?”

“It is. And more.”

“Good. Send the excess back to the wife with my condolences.”

“You’re returning the money?” Primo couldn’t believe it.

“We take what we’re owed, no more.” Salvatore told him, not even bothering to turn around.

“And what am I owed?” Primo asked. A tense silence followed, and Primo could swear he heard Salvatore inhaling deeply.

“ _You_ were owed nothing by Cristiano. His debt was to us. Now you’re a proper part of this family yes, next time you go to collect a payment you’ll receive a cut, but not today. Today, you learn.”

“Fine.” Primo shrugged, forcing himself to calm down. “Next time.”

Salvatore turned around and raised an eyebrow at him, likely expecting more of an argument, and Primo met his gaze. For a horrible second he worried that Salvatore suspected something, but his uncle finally sorted and turned away again.

“Go.” He said dismissively. “And don’t question me again.”

Primo left.

He drove back home but didn’t leave the car. He sat, and he thought, and he weighed up his options. He could go to bed and wake up the next morning a proper member of the family, one trusted to deliver when it was needed and yet still treated with barely a fraction of the respect he deserved. He could obey, and learn to shut his mouth, and in twenty or so year’s time he could take Salvatore’s place as head of the family. Or…

Primo checked the inner pocket of his jacket, flicking through the small bundle of notes he’d skimmed from Cristiano’s stash. It wasn’t much: it couldn’t be, not without Salvatore noticing, but it was enough. Enough to get away, to start his own life in Rome where he’d answer to no one but himself.

“See you in hell, papa.” He muttered, taking one last look at his childhood home before slamming on the accelerator pedal.

*****

Rome was further than he’d thought. Bigger, too, and Primo got lost more times than he’d care to admit before he finally made it to Stefano’s flat block. He needed a wash, and he needed to sleep, but before he could do either of those he needed a place to stay. He quickly combed his hair with his fingers, and pressed the doorbell.

“Fifty.” Primo grinned at his cousin in greeting when he answered the door. The poor man looked startled out of his wits.

“Stefano, please.” He said. Primo ignored that, and pushed into the flat. It was tiny, smaller than his house in Calabria, but cleaner. It was a little out of the heart of the city, but it would do.

“What are you doing here?” Fifty asked.

“I need a place to stay while I find my feet.” Primo explained, poking around the flat. It looked more like Stefano lived with his grandmother than his mother. “Oi, auntie.” He exclaimed as he poked his head round a door and saw his aunt.

“Primo, what-“ she startled to her feet. “Did Salvatore send you?” There was more than an edge of fear to her voice.

Primo resisted the urge to snort. As if Salvatore cared what she and her son were up to. He forced himself to smile instead, turning on the charm.

“No, not at all. I’m here to start a new life in Rome, and I was hoping I could perhaps sleep on your floor for a little while until I find work.”

“You got out?” His auntie said, the concern on her face smoothing out into joy. “Wonderful, Primo. Yes, of course, stay here as long as you need. I’m sure you’ll find good honest work so much more rewarding.” She kissed the cross around her neck in thanks and swept forward to embrace Primo.

Primo almost laughed. He had no intention of taking on “good honest work”, but his auntie didn’t need to know that. He hugged her back, and shot a look at Fifty over her shoulder. The other man glanced away, unwilling to make eye contact.

Oh, this was going to be _interesting_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Salvatore's a bitch, huh.


	4. Thou shalt not take the Lord’s name in vain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Primo's father dies, and he returns home for the first time in a couple of years.

Barely two years after Primo moved to Rome, his father died.

“A heart attack.” Leonardo told him over the phone. “It came on so suddenly… I’m sorry. If it helps at all, know that he didn’t suffer for long.”

“A shame.” Primo replied.

“Primo…” Leonardo said with a sigh. “He was still your father.”

“And now he’s nothing.” Primo’s knuckles were white where he held tightly onto the phone, his jaw clenched as he processed the news. He didn’t know whether to laugh or cry, to feel relief that the bastard was dead or annoyance that it hadn’t come sooner.

“The funeral’s this weekend: will you come back?”

“Maybe.”

“This is family, Primo. You shouldn’t go through this alone.” Leonardo urged. “Don’t cut yourself off from us for the sake of a dead man.”

“It was never just Matteo.” Primo said. His father had been the worst, without a doubt, but it was also _everyone_. Salvatore, not willing to treat him with the respect he knew he was owed, Leonardo acting like he knew Primo better than he knew himself, the whole damn family sitting idly by and refusing to grow with the times when Italy was changing all around them, full of opportunity if only they could _see_ it.

There was nothing but silence from the other end of the phone, and Primo considered hanging up.

“It’s not too late.” Leonardo eventually said. “You wouldn’t have to come back to stay, you could still live in Rome. You could be our eyes and ears in the capital.”

“Yeah. Sure. Maybe.”

“I know, I know, now’s not the time. Just… come to the funeral. We can talk then.”

“Fine.” Primo relented. He needed a drink. Several drinks, really, and something stronger if he could scrounge the cash for it.

“How are things in Rome?” Leonardo asked, sounding genuinely interested despite the forced upbeat tone of his voice.

“Wonderful.” Primo lied. He hung up.

*****

Things hadn’t changed in the years Primo had been away, nor had he expected them to. Time moved slowly out here, the village and its people virtually the same since he’d been a child. It was both comforting and claustrophobic to be back.

The service for his father was mercifully brief, and Primo rattled through the prayers and hymns with barely a second thought, the words and melodies coming back to him as though he’d never stepped away from regular Mass. He couldn’t help but notice that he wasn’t the only one not shedding a tear for the dearly departed: in fact, every single person in that church made it out with dry eyes.

They all offered their condolences to Primo, of course, but their commiserations were tinged with unspoken apologies that turned their kind words sour. Apologies that they hadn’t been there for him. Apologies that they had seen the man Matteo had been and done nothing.

Primo couldn’t face following everyone to the wake. He didn’t want to have to listen to more hollow words, didn’t want to have to pretend to mourn a dead man longer than he had to. Instead, he stayed in the churchyard, staring down at his father’s grave as it was filled in bit by bit. His only company came in the form of his hip flask. After a half hour of steady drinking and scowling, the workers finally left, sparing concerned glances over their shoulder at Primo as they walked away.

He was alone.

He walked over to the grave, idly kicking the loose dirt on the top. He’d been asked if he wanted to say a few words during the service earlier and had declined: what he had to say was for him and him alone to hear.

“Ciao, papa. I wonder if you missed me?” Primo drained the rest of his flask and tossed it aside, not caring where it landed. “The last words I said to you were “see you in hell”. You didn’t hear them, but I like to think the Almighty did. Looks like we’re halfway there already.”

Primo would have felt faintly ridiculous talking to a mound of earth, but the several shots of whiskey he’d taken meant that he didn’t much care. He knelt down by the grave, idly picking up handfuls of dirt and letting it crumble and fall back through his hands.

“I hope you’re alone down there. You don’t deserve to have mama with you. You never deserved her at all. I like to think she’s up in Heaven, looking down at us now and laughing. You took her laughter from her, took her _life_ and I never got the chance to truly make you pay. You _bastard_.”

Primo spat on the grave. It didn’t feel like enough. He rose to his feet and fumbled with his belt buckle, tugging his fly down and-

“Primo!”

Primo looked around, alarmed. Regina was hurrying across the cemetery towards him, her heels making her wobble as she made her way over the uneven ground. Primo made no move to do his trousers back up.

“Che cazzo, Primo?” She exclaimed. “What is this?”

“Fuck off.” Primo told her bluntly.

“And leave you alone? I don’t think so.” Regina folded her arms and refused to turn away despite the glare he sent in her direction.

“ _Porco dio_ I said I want to be alone! Am I not allowed that at least? One last moment with the man who ruined everything for me, the man who treated my mother like shit until she just couldn’t carry on living, the man who went and fucking died before I could truly make him pay for everything he’d done?”

“It’s for God to judge him now-”

“Screw God, he shouldn’t be the one to judge him, it should be _me_!” Primo viciously kicked over a vase of flowers left by the grave then sank to his knees, defeated, petals falling around him like the first snow of winter. “It should have been me.” He muttered, the tears that he’d held off for so long finally brimming in his eyes.

“Breathe.” Regina told him, pointedly ignoring the blasphemy.

“I am breathing.” Primo panted, angrily pushing back the hair that had fallen in his eyes.

“Primo.” She said sternly. It was the same tone she used to call Leonardo in line, to chastise Francesco when he wasn’t listening to her, and there was something about it that broke through his anger. He took a deep breath.

“You’re grieving.” She said, carefully picking her skirt up so she could kneel in the mud beside him. “It’s natural, don’t worry.”

“I’m not grieving.” Primo said.

Regina regarded him, her clear eyes meeting his bloodshot ones.

“No.” She said slowly. “I suppose you’re not.”

She stood up and brushed the dirt from her knees, then picked up the few flowers that were more or less whole and laid them on top of the grave.

“Cry.” She told Primo. “Shout. Rage all you want but do _not_ defile God’s land. When you are ready, know that Leonardo and I are there for you.”

She hovered for a moment, and Primo was certain she was going to reach out and touch him, perhaps rest a consoling hand on his shoulder, but instead she simply made her way back to the wake. Primo sniffed and dried his eyes on the sleeve of his suit, then almost without thinking reached round himself to press his own hand against his opposite shoulder. He closed his eyes and tried to imagine that the hand was someone else’s, that the steady pressure was that of Regina, or Leonardo, or his mother.

If he really concentrated, he could almost believe he wasn't alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Regina has BDE and it's time we all recognised that.


	5. Remember to Keep Holy the Sabbath day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Primo gets summoned back to Calabria for a job Salvatore wants him to do, but comes to blows over how to actually carry it out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Woah it's been a hot minute. Anyone still with me? Eh. Anyways, poor Primo has to drive for miiiiiiiles between Rome and home. No wonder he turned to coke to ease the boredom of those long ass journeys.

Primo’s life had become unpredictably predictable. He’d struggle to make ends meet in Rome through a series of low risk low reward jobs, and make trips back to the village every time Salvatore called. The whens and whats and hows were all irrelevant, as the outcome was always the same: Primo went to bed each night alone, unsure of if he’d even have a bed in a fortnight.

In short, things were rough. Primo had long since moved away from Fifty’s flat, deciding he’d rather spend what little money he had on his own space, and the few acquaintances he’d made were merely that: acquaintances. He hated being called back to Calabria on Salvatore’s whim, but he also hated having to return to Rome, the city he wanted so desperately to make his own but which had so far refused to accept him. People were reluctant to trust the self-confident country boy whose ideas were as grand as his ambition, and Primo had remained on the fringes of the city’s organised crime circles for years.

He told none of this to Salvatore and Leonardo. Each time he went back home he lied about his position in Rome and exaggerated his successes. He wasn’t sure if they believed him. He was absolutely certain that they didn’t care. The first time Primo had returned to the countryside, he had refused to stay in his father’s house. Not that it mattered, ultimately: Salvatore had passed it off to a distant cousin while he’d been away, a cousin who made it clear there was no longer a room for Primo there.

Instead, Primo had taken over Giuseppe’s old barn, slowly filling it out over the months and years with odd furnishings until it was more or less habitable. It was freezing in winter, but Primo had never had the intention of leaving the buzz of Rome behind in the cold winter months. Besides, Salvatore seemed to hibernate in the winter, snuggling himself away in his farmhouse and leaving the rest of them to fend for themselves. He had no need or want of Primo then, and Primo was grateful.

As soon as winter was over though, when the January rains receded into February drizzle, Salvatore would inevitably call Primo back. At least these days Primo could drive in his latest choice of stolen car: the early days of endless hours on the bus surrounded by the sounds and stench of other people were not something Primo had any intention of returning to. If he set off in the morning he could reach the village in just before nightfall, and indeed the sun was only just setting when he pulled up to Salvatore’s farm.

“Primo, come in.” Salvatore opened the door the second Primo knocked, his lips twitching into a facsimile of a smile as he greeted Primo. If he didn’t know any better, he would have almost said his uncle was pleased to see him.

“Come, come. Leonardo was just leaving.” Salvatore ushered Primo into the kitchen, where Leonardo looked like the timing of his departure was news to him too. He hastily stood up and pulled his jacket on.

“Primo, ciao.” Leonardo shook Primo’s hand as he passed him on the threshold.

“Leonardo, going grey already?” Primo smirked. Leonardo hadn’t even hit 40 yet but the slight grey at his temples was already spreading through the rest of his hair.

“What’s this eh, dressing like a woman now?” Leonardo tousled Primo’s shaggy hair then flicked the necklaces that hung around his neck. Primo slapped his hand away.

“I still have bigger balls than you.” he replied easily.

It was better these days, now that Leonardo had given up trying to be the weird unique mix of older brother and replacement father he had tried for in the year following Matteo’s death. Primo found it easier to insult him, to be insulted back then have to look into his eyes and see nothing but pity. Primo would not be pitied.

“Sure, sure. I’ll see you later.” Leonardo shook his head as he clapped Primo on the shoulder and left, leaving Primo alone with Salvatore.

“So. What’s it this time, uncle?” Primo asked as he made himself at home sitting on Salvatore’s table. His fingers itched for the coke in his pocket, just a little to help him through, but he didn’t dare reach for it. Not in front of Salvatore.

“Patrizio Lombardi, from Stilo. He’s just been elected to the Calabria regional council and _we_ have something over him. I need you to let him know, in no uncertain terms, that if he doesn’t cooperate with us his little secret won’t be so secret any more.” Salvatore cut straight to the matter at hand, wasting no time with small talk.

“And what is his ‘little secret’?” Primo asked. “I don’t want him to think I’m bluffing.”

Salvatore dipped his head in acknowledgement. “A string of mistresses. Expensive women, by all accounts, who have racked up considerable debt in his name. It would be... unfortunate for him should his wife and colleagues hear about this.”

“Sure.” Primo nodded. “Stilo, right? I can go tomorrow, find him as he’s leaving Church. Easier than a housecall, no?”

“No.” Salvatore shut him down. “We don’t work on Sundays, and we _do not_ bring our business to Church. You will go on Monday, when he visits his mistress out of the village.”

“Why wait?” Primo pushed. “I can have it done tomorrow if you’d just-“

“Monday.” Salvatore snapped. He raised his hand, and though he didn’t strike Primo instinctively took a step back.

“Ok. Monday.” He relented.

“Good boy.” Salvatore patted him non to gently on the cheek. “Have lunch with us tomorrow- Regina is a marvellous cook.”

 _No_. Primo thought. “Fine.” He said. Wonderful. So not only did Salvatore drag him out a day earlier than he had to, he wanted to force Primo to sit bored out his mind for hours while Regina talked about mundane village life and Salvatore ignored him in favour of talking to Francesco. The boy was only eight, and yet Salvatore took delight in drawing contrasts between him and how Primo had been at that age. Primo hated it, and hated himself even more for being jealous of a _child_. It wasn’t Francesco’s fault.

“How’s Rome?” Salvatore asked him, pulling Primo out of his thoughts. “Anything that can be of use to us?”

“Nothing yet.” Primo said. _What_ exactly Salvatore was hoping for, Primo didn’t know. He couldn’t work miracles.

“A pity.” Salvatore shrugged. “I suppose if you can’t do anything there you should just come back here. Take your father’s place fully, make him proud.”

Primo bristled, and clenched his fists to stop him from doing something he regretted. The urge to shout, to storm out of the house and slam the door was almost overwhelming, but he forced his boiling anger back down to a simmer and plastered a smile on his face.

“Maybe.” He said. “Good evening, uncle.”

Salvatore waved him away and Primo left, stalking back to his car and wrenching the door open so hard the whole vehicle shook. _T_ _ake your father’s place… make him proud_.

Primo headed straight to Stilo.

*****

It wasn’t the first time Primo had slept in his car, and he doubted that it would be the last. When he woke in the morning it was to church bells singing, and he hastily brushed his hair into something approaching respectability and followed the steady stream of villagers into the church.

It was strange, Primo thought as he settled into a pew at the back of the church, that the only times he attended Mass were when he returned home. The two were so intrinsically tied together that Primo knew he could never go to Mass in Rome without feeling as though he were transported back to Calabria. As a child Church had always been a double edged sword: for an hour, at least, he knew he was free from his father’s anger, but that hour was tainted with the knowledge that the peace would soon end. That feeling, that knot in his gut, refused to go away even now.

Primo distracted himself by looking around the church, keeping an eye out for Patrizio Lombardi. Once he found him, he didn’t take his eyes off him for the whole service. When Mass ended he followed him out of the church, making sure to keep several paces behind. He tailed, and he loitered, and he tailed Lombardi some more until finally the man was on his own. It was time for Primo to make his move.

“Peace be with you, signore.” He drawled as he walked over to Lombardi.

Lombardi frowned. “And also with you. I’m sorry, do I know you?”

“No, but we’re about to get better acquainted. If you’d come with me, you and I need a chat.”

“I don’t think so.” Lombardi snorted.

“Oh but I do.” Primo shifted slightly, a move designed to let his jacket fall open and reveal the gun hidden beneath. “Just a little chat. Won’t take a moment.”

Lombardi swallowed. “What do you want?” He asked, his eyes flickering in panic between Primo’s face and his gun. Primo grinned again.

“Believe it or not, Signore Lombardi, you and I are in a position to help each other out...”

*****

All things considered, it had gone remarkably well, and Primo made it back to Salvatore’s just as lunch was being served. For a few blissful moments, everything seemed great. He made sure to greet everyone, then sat down next to Francesco and started to help himself to food. Threatening politicians was hungry work. He realised after a moment that the table was deadly silent, all eyes turned on him.

“You missed Mass.” Salvatore told him.

“No I didn’t.” Primo grinned. “I went to Stilo. Change of scene. Lovely font there, really... solid.”

“Stilo.” Salvatore repeated, his tone flat. Across the table Leonardo swore under his breath, exchanging a look with Regina.

“Stilo.” Primo said. “Funny, I ran into Patrizio Lombardi there, and we managed to have a little chat. You’ll be pleased to hear he’s open to working with us in the future.”

“Pleased?” Salvatore’s voice raised several decibels. “Pleased? Tell me, what should I be pleased about? That you went against my explicit orders? That you dared to saunter around Stilo as if it were ours? That you couldn’t even keep Sunday as the holy day?”

“Please, Salvatore, not in front of Francesco.” Regina pleaded.

“This is _my_ house.” Salvatore snapped at her. Regina’s face hardened.

“Francesco, cuore mio, why don’t we take our lunch outside and get some fresh air?” She said as she turned to her son. Francesco nodded, staring at both Primo and Salvatore with open curiosity, but let himself be led out of the house.

“Salvatore, it doesn’t matter, it’s all worked out.” Leonardo tried, but Salvatore shut him up with a gesture.

“I’m disappointed, Primo. And after I offered to welcome you back home? Treat you with the same respect as I did your father? You have a long way to go to regain my trust.”

Primo lurched to his feet, his hands clenching into fists.

“Perhaps I don’t want your trust. And I don’t want or need your respect. I’ve done what you’ve said for years, carried out your dirty work for you, and you still treat me like I’m Francesco’s age. I’ve had enough.” Primo stormed out of the house. He needed air. He needed to get away. He needed that coke he still had in his glove compartment.

“Primo!” Salvatore shouted after him but Primo didn’t break his pace. He didn’t spare a single backwards glance as he sped away from the farm, pushing his car to its limit as he raced to leave Calabria behind. He was done. Better a starving man in Rome than a comfy man under Salvatore.

It was almost two years before he returned to Calabria again.


End file.
